Crimson Regrets
by AriesOrion
Summary: He is like a spark of colour in her grey and monotonous reality, covered in rivers of blood and wearing the brightest of grins in the midst of carnage. One-shot, character death
Disclaimer: I don't own One Piece or any of the characters.

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He is like a spark of colour in her grey and monotonous reality, covered in rivers of blood and wearing the brightest of grins in the midst of carnage. One-shot, character death

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'' _Why?_ ''

His voice is harsh, anger simmering beneath the surface, ready to erupt and annihilate her at every given moment.

It would take no more than a moment to eradicate her existence, and yet she could not find it in herself to be afraid.

Death was a welcome relieve.

The weight on her wrists is heavy – if only for the loss of freedom those chains cause, the shackles clattering against the wooden wall.

(Freedom is like a poisonous animal, beautiful to behold, but deathly to the touch, whispering sweet promises against the shell of one's ear.)

''Does it matter?'' Her voice is weak, raspy and low – but with a will of uncompromising steel behind every syllable. She can not tell him, _will_ not tell him.

She does not quite know whether she loathes or loves the man in front of her – and it reminds her of someone else.

Her salvation.

(Her _damnation._ )

''Of course it matters. Why would you go behind my back? Why _betray_ me?''

The wind is cold and harsh, unforgiving as it blows through his hair, the red strands dancing on the breeze.

(She is _transfixed. Yet she cannot allow this-)_

''I cannot betray what I never supported in the first place.'' She whispers hoarsely, but with the silence around her she might have as well have screamed it.

It's what she wanted though, isn't it? To have him stop looking at her like she _mattered-_

(It hurts though, a stabbing aching pain that makes her wish to cry – makes her wish to beg for his forgiveness even if she has no right to it.)

His hand is rough as he tilts her face upwards, and she can barely stop herself from shrinking back at the anger flashing in those eyes.

''A spy?'' His expression is bitter – _haunting_ – and a part of her is regretful to have put such an expression on the normally cheerfully grinning face.

(A useless emotion. She is a spider, weaving her net – and he is nothing but a target, no matter how long since their first orchestered meeting.)

She remains silent. What more needs to be said?

''Why him? Why Doflamingo?''

The question is not an innocent one. It's an interrogation and she's already failed the mission, is already a liability, _but-_

 _(Doesn't he deserve to know?)_

She remembers the monotonous and grey reality, the brand on her skin and the feeling of helplessness – the bitter and unwelcome passing of time, the fear what each new day might bring.

He was a burst of colour, covered in rivers of blood with the brightest of grins in the midst of carnage – just as dark and twisted, just as _lonely_ as they all were.

Among the screams of the dying, and the moans of the living – he had stretched out his pale hand, and transformed her world.

(He had become her world. Her _everything._ )

Right and wrong had long since stopped mattering, white and black forming a curious shade of grey, mixed and distorted in its singular misery.

''He saved me.'' She says instead, three instead of the thousand words she wishes to say, needs to say – but it's enough. He understands, she knows he does.

''He manipulated you.'' He accuses softly, and she hates the pity, hates that he acts as if he can _understand-_

''I might have been young. Might have been naïve in my gratitude, but even a puppet with strings attached can still have its own will. I chose to follow. Chose him, even though I knew he would never return the devotion we gave to him so freely.'' She bites out the words, her breath coming in small gasps, and she cannot even mourn the loss of her composure.

(She has given Doflamingo her everything, but a heart can never be fully controlled, no matter how much she may wish to.)

Charisma is powerful, a force able to dominate millions – and both of them have it in spades.

(She loves them and loathes them. Both so different and yet so similar.)

There's a brief flare of pain in her chest, and she feels herself smile. The hole is small, but it does not matter.

(She will die – quietly and slowly, ending not in a bang, but in a whimper.)

The sky is free of clouds, a bright and cheery blue – the weather tranquil, and she thinks it fits. The world needs not mourn for her, the sky does not need to cry.

She has lived her life, lived it well – and she thinks she has done enough.

With the plans for those shipments, her young master will be one step closer to his goal – and the red-haired Emperor before her will have a chance to save what is left.

(It's fine already.)

A lungful of air makes her cough, blood splattering out of her mouth, and she can only mourn the miserable state of her lungs – they're full of liquid, her blood crimson like the Emperor's hair, and the rivers running down her young master's hand.

(A beautiful colour, the first one she noticed in her monotonous reality – grey fading and red falling.)

His hand is warm as it wipes away her blood, and she smiles. It's a small one, genuine and relieved – and Shanks can only return it bitterly.

(He thinks of the young woman he met on a trade island in his territories, eyes full of mischief, and a ready smile on her beautiful face, and can only feel boundless regret.)

Shanks knows now that she let herself get caught, let him figure her out, so that he would not be hurt any further, and for a moment he yearns for a world where he was the one who found her.

(He remains silent, her smile is peaceful and accepting, beautiful in its simplicity – and he does not have the heart to disrupt it.)

''I wish…'' She does not finish. Grasping for dreams which can never come true is useless, but she still _wishes_.

Why couldn't he have been the one to find her? To stretch out his hand, and steer her away from that monotonous reality.

(It does not do to dream-)

Her head drops against the wall behind her – her orbs tracing the few clouds, and a lone tear drops across her face.

Yet, even though she no longer had the right to stand beside any of them… At least one more time she wanted to see him. To that smile on his face, and that expression in his eyes. Just once more…. She wanted to make him proud of her, glad to have saved her.

Once more…

''Sleep.''

A hoarse whisper, low and soothing and her eyelids instinctively drop. That's right, she can finally sleep.

Finally.

(Death is swift, and silent. It's soundless of painless – numb and fierce….

…she thinks death is kind.)

…

…

…

(A weathered hand is stretched out before her, grey receding and red sparkling like a halo around the person's head….)

She grabs it without hesitation.

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A/N Just a short one-shots that has been flying around in my head today after I rewatched the Ounk Hazard Arc with Vergo and Monet...

Enjoy!

C'ya soon

AriesOrion


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